


The Moral of the Story

by volti



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: (if you squint), Demisexual Character, F/M, High School, I'm Sorry, Kissing, Lukanette, No Spoilers, Party, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 17:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: They'resixteen. You know, in high school? They're celebrating. They're not supposed to be playing Spin the Bottle. Especially when Juleka's 18-year-old brother is right there.And especially when he and Marinette have been off-and-on flirting for two years.And especially when Adrien Agreste is still in the room.





	The Moral of the Story

**Author's Note:**

> this was purely self-indulgent ghfdjskg i don't know what i'm doing with my life anymore but I'LL FILL THE LUKANETTE TAG BY MYSELF IF I HAVE TO
> 
> also the actual moral is don't listen to "break up with your girlfriend i'm bored" on repeat one
> 
> alsox2 ling if you're reading this i'm sorry

Marinette should really know by now, by virtue of Best Friend Status, that when Alya Césaire gets That Glint in her eye, there’s almost nothing but trouble attached to it. (To be fair, it’s probably on the level of “chaotic good,” so it could be loads worse given Alya’s usual… predilections… but there’s something just a little _too_ suspicious about the way Alya stares right at her when she picks an empty soda bottle up off the table.)

“Circle time,” she says over the low thrum of the stereo in the corner of the houseboat cabin, and it confirms the worst of Marinette’s suspicions.

Really, though? She and her classmates are, like, sixteen, and they’re all about to play Spin the Bottle at a party? A tight-knit celebration of Kitty Section’s first live gig, no less. As far as Marinette is concerned, they should keep talking over snacks and pastries, and looping the performance—which Alya faithfully recorded, thanks to her steady hands and Luka’s in with the café owners—on the TV. But they’ve already watched it upwards of six times, and as exhilarated as she still is for someone who was simply in the frontmost table and not actually on stage, it’s probably getting pretty old pretty fast.

No matter. She’ll watch it some other time. Because, apparently, being in high school isn’t a viable reason to avoid a first-kiss party game. And because she’d rather not make it even more obvious that she’s got an entire thing for the guitar solo—and the backup vocals that took her by surprise.

She’d rather not make it more obvious than it already is that she’s got an entire thing for Luka Couffaine. You know. Her classmate’s older brother who she’s had this weird not-crush crush on for, like, two years. (Even through whatever feelings for Adrien she’s still been working through.) And who she’s pretty sure has something more than a not-crush crush on her back, if all their medium-key flirting and late-night heart-to-hearts are any indication.

And also the guy who takes a seat in this hell circle, _directly across from her_ , like he’s personally out to get her. He’s still wearing most of his outfit from the gig, save for the more costume-like elements of it, and immediately he starts drumming his fingers against his knees along to the music. She notices it almost right away—not as fast as her eyes gravitate to the tears in his dark jeans, but definitely faster than she notices that she’s murmuring the lyrics to herself, and that he just saw her mouth the F-word.

At least in the course of two years, she’s gotten a lot better at containing her full-body reactions. Still, she can’t suppress a wide-eyed _are you kidding me_ look toward Alya before she hides her face in her hands. Why? Why is he playing along with this?? He’s just turned eighteen, and he’s literally months away from graduating high school. He’s got to be looking after them, or humoring them. He can’t actually be… invested in this—

“Marinette? You okay?”

A peek through her fingers tells her that Adrien’s taken a seat right next to her, and that all her other classmates are seated boy-girl-boy-girl, ready to go. With a whine, she drops her head again—even though her eyelids burn with the vision of Luka standing so close to the mic stand and practically kissing the microphone as he sang under the spotlight—and says, none too dramatically, “I crave death.”

To which Juleka mumbles, without missing a beat, “Same.”

“Oh, stop,” Alya says—she’d probably clap Marinette on the back if they were side-by-side—and gives the bottle the first spin of the night. It’s almost formulaic, how it lands on Nino, and how delighted Alya is to kiss him like she doesn’t get to do it all the time—like they haven’t been doing it in and out of the public eye for the last couple of years. But at least, once she’s planted a kiss on his lips, she gives everyone in the circle the chance to choose between a kiss on the cheek or a kiss on the mouth. Which almost seems more like Alya’s saying that nobody has an excuse _not_ to kiss someone, if they’re making this kind of concession, but Marinette might be the only one who sees it that way.

Still, about eighty percent of the circle seems to heave a sigh of relief; when Marinette takes a look around, she catches Rose and Juleka looking away with shy smiles, and Alix taking one look at Kim before shoving her baseball cap down around her face. If she squints, Alix’s face looks bright red under there. She doesn’t dare look to her right, but she makes the mistake of lifting her gaze, and even though the music is some Billboard pop song and not at all Luka’s style, he’s still swaying a little and smiling to himself. And mouthing the lyrics.

So now she actually does want to die a little bit. She probably already has, on the inside.

(It’s already bad enough that she’s still got that vision in her head. And how she’s remembering that Alya heard her the exact moment she blurted out, “God, I wish that were me,” to the beat of Luka’s heel onstage.)

It’s probably best to watch the bottle. At least it can’t betray her. It can only spin at the will of the people around the circle, give directions on who’s supposed to do what to whom. And she can see the results out of the corners of her eyes, and hear all the giggles and heckling and whooping besides. Nino sneaks a kiss to Mylène’s cheek, and she does the same for Juleka, who leans over in front of Ivan to share a tender one with Rose (which Marinette actually looks up for, because who wouldn’t? They’re adorable, and everyone in the circle knows it). And then Rose spins the bottle, and it lands on Adrien, who looks like he’s never been kissed in his life—which is totally untrue, because everyone and their cousin knows about the trip to the ice rink with Kagami, and the picnic, and then the second date with Kagami, which Nino freaked out to practically everyone about when Adrien told him about it.

And which Marinette—first to her existential horror, and then to her relief—wasn’t totally devastated by, when she found out.

Honestly, she’s not even sure if they’re a thing; it’s either a huge secret, or a huge setup between their parents, with how much they don’t do around other people, in spite of the peaceful, almost dreamy looks Adrien gets on his face sometimes, if she’s nearby. She’s just glad she’s not in some will-he-won’t-he limbo anymore, because she decided that she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t call it a dodged bullet, exactly, because Adrien is still too nice and all around a good guy to be associated with anything so violent. Maybe a dodged heartbreak is a better way to put it. And heartbreak certainly isn’t what she feels when Rose giggles and takes Adrien’s face in her hands and kisses his forehead—it’s still a kiss, she insists, when Alya says that that wasn’t the agreement.

Adrien only smiles and waves it away—“It’s fine, don’t worry about it”—and reaches to give the bottle a spin. And there’s something almost cruelly ironic about how the song on the stereo fades out right as the nose of the bottle slows and lands on her.

You know. Like everyone knows exactly what she had to do to get over this exact scenario never happening ever.

And everyone does know.

Well. Except Adrien. Because she never told him. And it was probably better that way.

Still, he looks a little surprised—maybe even shocked—as his gaze drags from the bottle up to her, and he clears his throat uncomfortably. Which Marinette doesn’t blame him for; in all their time spent together, he’s only ever insisted that they were friends—dear friends, sure, but still friends and nothing more—and he’s never given any indication that he’s actually wanted to do more than hug her. So there’s something almost bittersweet about how he cradles one cheek in his hand and softly kisses the other. There’s something about it that says months’ worth of _I’m sorry_ and _Thank you_ and _Goodbye_ and _Don’t go too far_ all at once, and she’s too stunned to do little more than close her eyes kiss the air beside his ear.

On her list of most awkward kisses, it’s probably the second. Right after Chat Noir.

She’s still touching her cheek when, over the hum of the music, Alya gives her a look that’s sympathetic and pointed all at once and says, “So, are we… you know… still playing?”

Marinette’s not sure if she’s swallowing her pride or salvaging what little of it there is when she grabs the bottle and spins it with more strength than she thought she would’ve had in the moment. It’s a blur in the center of the circle, glass clinking and whining against hardwood and she’s already thinking of all the possibilities, even if she screws her eyes shut because she can’t watch. But now that she’s thinking about it—because she _has_ to think about it—she’d probably be okay with kissing, like, ninety percent of the people in this circle. Maybe even ninety-two percent.

She can hear the bottle starting to slow, and it makes her vision swim even as she opens one eye at a time, and then closes them again, because she can't watch. There's a  harsh scrape of glass against the floor before silence falls, and Marinette finally dares to open her eyes.

"Well," Alya says with a none-too-innocent grin. "Would you look at _that_."

The bottle is pointing at Luka, dead-on.

So now Marinette’s actually convinced that some higher power—or maybe just "chaotic good" Alya Césaire—is out to get her. Even though, out of all the people in this damn circle, she’d hope she’d be the one to get to do it.

There a mix of coos and hollers around the circle, some dropped jaws and squeals and hands pressed to cheeks and an emphatic, “Oh, thank _fuck_.” And none of it comes from Luka. He’s quiet, sure, but he has this furtive way of smiling like he knows exactly what’s going on, and all he has to do is keep looking at her from across the circle and beckon her over with a finger to make her want to melt into the floor. And for once, it’s in a good way.

Her cheeks are burning, both from the gesture and from the anticipation, and her heart is pounding so fast it’s almost on part with the bass from the stereo. On instinct, she shakes her head fast, and catches a glimpse of Adrien’s wide-eyed, dumbfounded expression.

So Luka gestures again, points to himself and then to her with that same smile and questions in his eyes— _Can I come to you instead?_ —and Marinette finds herself nodding, dumb and hopeful and all kids of jittery. And she can’t tell if he resembles a cat or a snake when he crawls across the circle, dips his head to meet her gaze, and presses his mouth to hers without hesitation.

The first and only time Luka ever kissed her, it was the summer before her first year of high school. He came over pretty often back then—he still does, but summer always means free time, and free time always means excuses to get together—and they spent most of their time apart but together. She’d sketch out designs or wrestle with the sewing machine, he’d play out some tune or other on his guitar, and they always enjoyed each other’s company. Enough for her to come clean on the balcony one humid August night, to tell him practically everything about Adrien, and The Second Date, and how getting over feelings was too hard for someone like her when she was already so busy and when—when she’d never even—

Luka stopped playing, which was always a sign that something serious was about to happen, and asked her, point blank, if she’d never been kissed before. He was always good at asking questions like that without shame.

It was complicated, she told him, but for all intents and purposes, she… hadn’t.

The look he gave her was almost as complicated as exactly what she was trying _not_ to get into the details of. But he watched her, with his guitar in his lap, and said, “Look, I… This is gonna sound presumptuous, and you can slap me for it if you want, but I wouldn’t mind being that guy. Actually, I’d be honored.” And then he added, “I just want your first kiss to come from someone who loves you.”

That’s the thing about Luka: when he does talk, everything he says is worth remembering to the letter.

“So kiss me,” she told him, without slapping him, and all the buildup that came from him putting his guitar aside and coming closer to her was almost as intoxicating as the moment his hand wound into hair and his lips found hers among the sound of the crickets and the cars.

This kiss isn’t like that kiss. That kiss was careful, tender. It couldn’t have lasted more than a moment or two, and when he pulled back afterward, he thumbed her cheek and didn’t stray too far and asked if it was all right—and then smiled, because all she could do in response was giggle. _This_ kiss feels more like a statement; it’s slow but dizzying, and heady, and she’s so caught up in how his lips move that she barely registers the whistles and catcalls around her. Or the way he tilts his head to deepen the kiss and pull her in for a little more. Or how, when he pulls back, she chases after him, still wanting.

She has to wonder how many girls he’s left like that. How many girls have been so lucky.

In the end, the only things she’s dimly aware of are how her whole face is on fire, and how, out of the corner of her vision, Adrien is still wide-eyed and clearly looking everywhere but at her out of some kind of modesty, and how, as Luka shifts back to his seat, he draws his thumb over his lower lip like he didn’t just make her short-circuit and give into two years of flirting and dancing and teasing in front of God and everyone. And his eyes never for one second leave hers.

“Christ,” Alya says, plucks the bottle away and flips it into the recycling. “I think we’re good.”

Luka only shrugs, and gets up to grab another can of soda, and the way he flicks the tab and takes a swig is almost illegal.

 

* * *

 

“God, you’re the worst—you’re so unfair—”

“Thank you—but you know—I could say the same—”

She’s been thinking about that stupid bottle and that stupid kiss this whole party, and not even going up onto the deck to spend some quality time with Captain Couffaine has helped. Sure, the fresh air and the sound of the Seine did her some good, but she ended up plateauing at some point among the city lights, and decided it was more fun to actually be around other people again. And that it was more fun when Luka caught her eye from across the room, after God knows how much more skirting and flirting and comments out of the corners of their mouths, and nodded his head toward the cabin corridor when everyone else was so preoccupied with each other. And that it was the most fun when his fingers twined with hers and he said that darker clothes and canvas sneakers are starting to suit her, and that he’d been thinking about kissing her all night.

“But you did kiss me,” she said, and looked toward the party even though the recycling bin was out of sight.

“No,” he said, and looked toward the closet, “I mean _kissing_ you.”

Which is how they end up in such a dark, tight space, with the bass pulsing one room over and her back against the locked door and his mouth covering hers, muffling sound between them. It’s more than the first kiss, even more than the second kiss; it’s intense, and desperate, and she’s so caught up in how their fingers catch in each other’s clothes that she barely remembers to keep their volume in check. It’s not that she’d put something like this past him—more that he’s had every opportunity to go for something like this, so why now? But then, she’s had every opportunity, too, so why didn’t she—

He kisses his way down her jaw then, and the death grip on her waist tightens into something that’s probably beyond the afterlife, and when his teeth sink into her skin she doesn’t mouth the F-word. She whines it.

“You know I see you, right?” he murmurs into her neck, nurses the bite with a few kisses that send shudders down her spine. He nurses her lips, too, as he hoists her up against the door and presses his forehead to hers. It’s too dark to see anything in here, but she doesn’t need the light to know how rich his eyes are, how deeply he must be looking at her. “I see you. Just you. I’ve been thinking about it since the show.”

“Just since the show?”

“Not just since the show.”

She laughs, because she’s drunk on the feeling, or it must be what drunk feels like, and because his hair is so soft in her grip. “This is a weird way to ask a girl out. Haven’t you done this before? Are you sure you’re not just fooling around?”

Luka pauses, a little too serious for the moment, and she can feel every breath against her lips, soft but present. “I meant what I said,” he says, nails digging into her thighs. “I meant what I told you over the summer. This sort of thing goes hand-in-hand for me.”

It’d be hilarious, if it weren’t so ironic, that he would come out to her like this in a closet of all places. “So… why did you wait so long?”

“I just wanted to be sure. And now I am.”

“What?” She gives him an amused smile, even if he can’t totally see it. “You kiss me one more time, and suddenly you know for sure that I like you back? It’s high school, not a fairy tale.”

“You’re talking too much, Marinette,” he whispers, and kisses her quiet, from her mouth to the choker he tugs from her neck and lets drop to the closet floor, despite her complaints that she spent forever putting it together, and he should appreciate what she did with the pick he gave her so long ago. “I’m appreciating something else,” he says, and Marinette has to clap her hand to her mouth to silence herself when Alya calls her name from the hallway.

It’s just hard to do that when there are teeth marks embedded into her neck, and a tongue stud dragging up her throat, and a grin against her jaw when he knows exactly what she’s trying to hide. It’s even harder to pretend she’s not here, with her hand clamped over her mouth and her legs wound tight around his waist, while she’s waiting for Alya to assume she’s already gone home, when Luka’s shushing her in her ear, breathing hot there like maybe he’s thought about pressing his body to hers just as much as she has.

It’s easier though, when his tongue _is_ actually in her mouth.

“Can I take you out on Sunday?” He’s still holding her up—of course he is; he has to spend more than his fair share of time lifting and swimming and rigging ropes. But he rasps the words like he’s lost his voice, breathes them like he’s hoping to God she’ll say yes, or like he might die if he doesn’t get to hold her this close again.

“Yeah,” she whispers back, with the smallest smile, and this time he’s soft when he kisses her. Almost like the first time, but with a lingering want hiding somewhere underneath, somewhere in the tongue stud. “Is it like a…  _date_ date, or like a ‘watch TV and make out on the couch’ arrangement?”

“You know me,” Luka says, all the charm and flirtation seeping back into his voice. He’s lowering her to the floor now, and she’s already regretting it, but he’s using his phone’s flashlight to find the choker and fasten it around her neck again, among apologies and tender lips and the promise to conceal the marks he left behind. “I’m flexible.”

That’s the mystery of him. She’ll never know if it’s a double entendre until it happens to her.

Except she kind of wants it to be.

Not that she’ll ever tell.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/omnistruck) and a [Tumblr](http://voltisubito.tumblr.com); follow me there for more shenanigans! Feel free to leave comments and stuff in my askbox as well c: Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, give that kudos button a hit!


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